Sign on the Dotted Line, Please
Coruscant - ' ----- :''Trademeet: It is a city built by merchants for merchants; a city of wealth and romance; a city of hopes and dreams; a city of lights and magic; a city where everyone can feel like a Noble, if only for a short time. :The Northern Exchange district, known locally as Coruscant, acts as the central merchant and lodging area for the northern half of the city. A relative mirror of the Northern Exchange that can be found on the north side of the city, it features a number of taverns and inns, as well as a carpentry and smithy. :Built of wide avenues, neat rows of white-stone townhouses and buildings, copper-hued cobble streets and roads, and finished with golden-brass railings, smooth bronze finials, polished redwood timbers, and columns of planted trees, it is notable for the large and curiously named Drunken Dragon Tavern, a somewhat bold establishment if ever there was one. :Massive plinths adorned with bas relief sculptures stand in the middle of each district, acting as indicators as to which district is which. That of Coruscant is dominated by the distinctive form of a gryphon, the heraldic animal of House Valoria, and a new addition to the city at that. :The Hunter District can be found in the east, while the Forgeworks District is to the west. The Fastheld River flows through the middle of the city in the south. :The sky is moonless, a portent of Shadow strength. ----- Dusk has swallowed the streets, cloaking the stones and alleys in shadow and bathing its denizens in darkness. At night, Coruscant is just that: a quiet carpet of fireflies and scattered stars, torchlight and lanterns, and the air is alive with the sounds of bards and poets and tavern revelry. Strangely, the Drunken Dragon, usually the flame to which all wandering moths gravitate, is quiet tonight. It should be no surprise then that it is here that Reese Firelight has stationed herself, though perhaps it is odd that on this particular evening she has forsaken the shadows for the warm orange light of a sconce posted just to the right of the massive oaken door. She leans against the weathered stone-and-mortar, slicing bites of an apple with her dagger one at a time and popping them into her mouth. Clip-clop clip-clop...rare, at this time of an evening in which no moons shine, but not so out of place when voices and music still spill readily out of the tavern and the occasional candle-light warms residence windows. Wrapped in a travel cloak with the hood drawn up over the brightness of her hair, Ashlynn slows Conceit from a trot as they near what should have been the liveliest point of the city. Swinging her leg over and sliding down without bothering to halt the mare, the courier walks alongside her mount as she approaches the famous tavern, shaking her head free of the hood as she does so. Behind Ashlynn, there is the patter of hurried footsteps. Pat-pat-patta-patta-pat, a plump young girl in the blush of her first flowering races up the sidewalk, long silken blonde curls bouncing with each stride. It's not fear that drives her, however, not even at this late an hour, when girls such as herself are better off at home by the hearth. No, it is delight. "Reesey!" she calls breathlessly, winded. And is is that cry that pulls Reese from her reverie. Glancing in the direction of the sound, the ranger shifts her weight to stand straight, warmth descending over her pale features. She smiles broadly, immediately sheathing her blade and tucking the apple into a waiting pouch to open her arms for the younger girl. They share an embrace, tight and affectionate, Caprice sweeping the girl off of her feet to swing her around once, playful and exuberant, before setting her back upon her feet. "Oh-h-h-h, yer armor, Reesey, Lacey were righ', aye, ye've new armor," the youth gushes, practically petting the obsidian mesh of the Pathfinder's elegant ringmail. "Sae loovely, aye? Oh, whir'd ye ge' 't?" Reese's smile is wry. "Frae 'andsoome knigh'," she replies. "Oh, Reesey, yer a-''lyin..." "Am nae." Caprice makes a show of bristling, rolling her shoulders and sniffing haughtily. "T'were an 'andsoome knigh', aye, mos' 'andsoome whit I've seen." Ashlynn stops in surprise as the foot-race passes her, pellmell, to impact the very one she is searching for. Conceit is forced to stop with her, but after a moment observing the scene, the mare scrapes a hoof impatiently upon the cobbles, reminding its owner that it has not been fed or watered or groomed yet. Shaking herself, the courier forcibly pulls herself from her bemusement at this other aspect of the taciturn pathfinder before continuing on into the circle of light in which the two stand. "Mistress Firelight," she calls softly in greeting. The little girl just bursts into tittering laughter, covering her mouth ever so shyly. "Pa were askin' 'boot ye," she says, after a moment. "He sa' ye killed a Shadowbeast, Reesey! A Shadowbeast! Ye saved a Dooke!" "Di' I?" Caprice queries, resting a finger against her chin contemplatively, gaze turning upward as if the sky had answers. The other girl stomps her foot. "Oh, yer a-''teasin'," she huffs, laughing. Clapping her hands, then, she bobs on her heels. "Whit di' ye brin' me thi' time?" Those blue eyes, so cold and haunting, are as warm and inviting as a hearthfire when they lower to the freckled face of the young girl. "I broong ye thi'," Reese answers, worming her finger into a pouch at her left hip to produce a pinch of leafy something. "Mint?" "Mint," Reese confirms. "Verra special mint, aye. Ye ken whit's 'n 't?" Awed, the girl shakes her head. Ah, the soft smile that touches Reese's lips is strange, but gentle and genuine. "Love," she answers. "More loove, aye, and magic, whit ye kin 'imagine. Ye keep tha', aye? Donnae be chewin' 't, now. 'Tis special, I'm nae lyin'," she warns, wagging a finger sternly. Interrupted by Ashlynn's approach, the ranger swivels her head to blink mutely at the courier. After a moment of perplexity, the little girl decides to join her in blinking. A little sheepish at having to disturb the scene, Ashlynn gives a small smile and a little waggle of her fingers. "My apologies for interrupting," she says with a nod for each of the females before her. "I simply have something for you," she directs this time to Caprice alone, "which I would rather not miss handing over. I can stay here for the evening, and you can find me whenever it is convenient for you," she says with a motion toward the tavern before which they stand, even as she is tugging on Conceit's reins to begin leading the mare toward the stables. While the chill that descends upon Reese is likely not at all unfamiliar to Ashlynn, it seems to be entirely alien to the girl, who begins to fidget as the Pathfinder stiffens and scowls toward the bar, eyes narrowing. "Sharis," Reese Firelight tells her younger sister in tones far too clipped to be altogether kind, "ge' y'sel' gone now. Take th' way I showed ye." Sharis's double chin quivers when she nods. "Aye, Reesey, a' ye weel," she complies, uncertainly but no less sweet. she even smiles for the courier, innocent and bright, and sketches something of a curtsy before easing away from the pair and turning to head back the way she came. Then, suddenly, she pauses. "Reesey?" she calls. Reese looks her way, turning halfway. "Aye, Sharis m' loove?" "Ye'll look fer th' beast whit done fer Kael, won't ye? Li' ye di' fer th' Dooke?" Something in Reese's expression softens, then, her facade cracking the slightest bit. Echoes of that warm smile leak through once again. "'Til th' day whit I die, Sharis m' loove," she promises. Sharis smiles back. Satisfied, she takes off down the twilight road, the magic sprig of mint clutched in her fist. "No need..." Ashlynn begins to try and defer the leavetaking, but seeing that chill determination descending over the pathfinder, she gives up with a sigh; resigned. A bright smile is offered back to the sibling along with a nod of farewell, and she waits silently aside until Sharis is well out of earshot before she murmurs, "A lovely girl, and you're good to her. My apologies, again, for interrupting, but at least this will be quick." It's more likely that Caprice would have favored a speck of dirt with more attention than the compliment given. "Whit bus'ness 'ttends ye, Mistress Birch?" she asks, cutting to the chase. Unaffected by the other's brusqueness, Ashlynn continues lightly, "I should possibly also give you fair warning a Kael Firelight shared my campfire a few evenings ago." As she speaks, she is working at the ties on one of the saddlebags lying over the mare's rump, eventually extracting a leather wallet for carrying letters and a squat, round tube. "We exchanged a pleasant conversation," she finishes, unceremoniously extending the items toward the other woman. "Fancy tha'," Reese acknowledges disinterestedly, turning the gem over in her hand with what is at first idle curiosity, but soon develops into full-blown wonder. It catches even the faintest light from every which way, refracting it into rainbows and glittering like a celestial body. So rapt is she that Caprice seems genuinely surprised when the envelope is thrust her way, and snapping out of it, she pockets the jewel to inspect the seal pressed into the wax. Ashlynn is, too, initially transfixed by the gem revealed, but then winces as the wan light scatters in sharper bursts from its facets. "You may wish to put that away..." she begins, even as Caprice finally tucks it out of sight. Glancing about the street, she continues, "I was handed these for you not long ago, by the courier dispatcher in Bramblestone. The requester asked for me by name, and knew where to catch me in my route." A glance of unease is thrown toward the pathfinder, and then fixes with muted curiosity upon the envelope now being examined. "The dispatcher did not know his identity - all I could get out of him before he all but fled was simply that the requester bore golden armor. I was given a...most handsome fee for the task." The information is far more than required, perhaps even wished for; but the courier tries to impress her own unease of the situation upon the other woman, and in the giving, make a quiet offer of ties more than mere acquaintanceship. Though her eyes are slitted with suspicion for the lion's share of the tale, one key phrase does set Reese's eyebrow to arching. She offers nothing in return for the information; not initially, that is. The contents of the package take more precedence, though stating that she is merely displeased with what she finds is the ultimate understatement. Caprice stares at the letter with the sort of horrified revulsion only the illiterate possess, wincing at it as if roaches were skittering about the page. She licks her lips, and there is an unspoken plea for help in the look she shoots the courier's way. Ashlynn blinks only once at the expression that scrawls across the woman's face when the letter is revealed before she catches on; it is, after all, a task which she has performed many a time, both for friends and for payment. "If I may...?" she says as she extends a hand for the letter. "Aye," Reese agrees, passing it her way. "Thank ye." Ashlynn tilts the small square of parchment toward the light, and her eyes run briefly over the few words before she is passing the sheet back to Caprice, eyes fixed upon the pathfinder. "We have not forgotten you, Hound of the Light. Your service is not yet at an end," she recites neutrally. Though no words are spoken, Reese authors volumes in the the way her jaw works, the way her fingers flex at her sides, the way her brow darkens. Somewhere in the distance, a musician is playing a jaunty ditty on his fiddle, and a barroom full of happy, drunken listeners clap and stomp their feet, hooping and hollering along. "If I were t' gi' ye a r'sponse," she asks after a time, "coul' ye?" Ashlynn watches all with nary a flicker over her own face, observing patiently as the woman works through her initial reactions before the courier inclines her head at the question. "Of course. Just tell me the contents and how to pass it on." Having plucked the sheet from Ashlynn's hand, Reese reaches up to slide the torch from the rusty metal sconce mounted beside the tavern door. Blue eyes flicker yellow then green in its dancing flame, which is granted the tiniest taste of the dry parchment. That tiny taste is enough. Fire blackens the letter's corner, sending up a sweet-smelling wisp of greyish-white smoke as it slowly chews its way to her fingertips. "Ye tell 'em," Reese instructs gravely, in tones as soft and deadly as snakeskin, "tha' ''I weel be nae man's dog." Ashlynn lifts a brow first, then her mouth twitches appreciatively. "Shall I deliver that with or without a rude gesture, accompanying?" she asks. "And who, exactly, would I be delivering it to? I am not certain that the dispatcher would be able - much less willing - to pass a message back." Fishing for information? Not at all. A wholly practical question. Predictably, no information is forthcoming. As Reese whirls, she flings the torch to the ground -- thnk -- and lets it smother out or burn the town down, whichever it pleases. The letter, still aflame, flutters in the space she occupied a moment before, drifting to the ground where it curls and writhes at Ashlynn's feet. The Dawnbringer herself strides purposefully into the night, Vice at her back and darkness before her. ----- ''Return to Season 7 (2008) Category:Logs